Christmas if it Kills Us
by Night of the Living Monkey
Summary: Only in Gotham could Christmas feature clowns, hatters, scarecrows, brainwashing, attempted murder, and a party you can't refuse.


How are the festivities going? Hope this fic adds to the joy and good will.

* * *

It wasn't the first time Arkham's unwilling residents had been woken with music. Eight months ago, as a special April Fools' Day treat, the Joker had usurped the PA system and unleashed his playlist of songs about butts and gyrating them upon inmate and guard alike. Considering he'd already had _"_ Rump Shaker" and "Big Ole Butt" for an alarm clock, Crane tried his best not to hate Rudolph and his eight flying friends.

Finding his cell door open made that quite a bit easier. Peeking out like a prairie dog scout to make sure a guard wasn't going to take a billy club to his knees, Crane found the hall deserted. He also noticed all cells surrounding his were unlocked, and several inmates were either looking out or already wandering. Going by the snores, there were also a few who couldn't be assed to get up on Christmas morning even with blaring carols.

"Do you think Santa came this year? I think he actually did!" Crane's immediate neighbor cried. Literally cried. With tears of joy running down his face, he tried to embrace Crane.

"Personal space! If you come any closer, I will immerse you in nightmares!" Crane shouted.

"Shh, don't say things like that! He'll put you on the naughty list and take your presents back!" The man recoiled as though Crane's being blackballed was contagious.

"I didn't think anything about Christmas could be stupider than wars over coffee cups, but apparently I was wrong," Crane said to himself. He turned his back on the 40-year-old adult who still believed in Santa Claus and sought better company.

Of course he didn't find it.

Crane hadn't yet escaped his own cell block when a gaggle of guards approached him. He turned tail and started sprinting the way he'd come. He'd almost run back to his home sweet cell when something ticked on in his brain and brought his feet to a stop.

The guards weren't chasing him, demanding he stop, or threatening to Tase the crap out of him. Crane carefully approached the patrol. As he came closer, he saw his initial impression was right: these guards were severely unfit for duty. They were wearing festive hats, either Santa hats, reindeer antlers, or elf hats bedecked with bells. They were also singing mismatched Christmas carols independently of each other. They taped paper decorations on the wall as they went, or strung garland and tinsel through cell bars. Their eyes were the wide, terrified eyes of cows in a chute.

"Tetch." Mind control through hats had exactly one master.

"And me!"

Crane nearly jumped out of his skin. He pivoted around to find Harley Quinn, of course wearing a hideous sweater she no doubt found adorable, standing behind him. She had an armful of blue construction-paper cutouts that she handed over to the guard unit.

"It's lookin' awesome, keep it up! And I made some dreidels and some more snowmen and I found some silver spray paint. Don't huff it, spray it places like snow! Hugs not drugs!" Harley instructed.

Once the disorganized bunch were gone, randomly spraying and hanging, Harley returned her attention to Crane. "So, what do you think, Professor?"

"You saved me from wondering why Tetch would celebrate Christmas over unbirthdays or tea parties. That's your influence. Congratulations on being able to reach any part of his mind. Also, I imagine before the day is done, at least one person is going to take that spray paint and reenact certain scenes from _Mad Max_. Be prepared for that." Crane began walking.

"Uh...okay? Wait a second! Where are you goin'?"

"A safe house. A homeless shelter. A dumpster. Anywhere but here."

"But then you're gonna miss Christmas, and everyone's workin' so hard to decorate and make it festive! And we're gonna have a party and-"

Crane snorted. "A party? You might as well tell me you have free kicks to the shins."

"You don't have to _dance_ or anythin'. Mr. Scarface found a bunch of booze in a guard's locker so you can get your drink on!"

Crane couldn't decide whether Harley's phraseology or her belief he'd enjoy getting plastered was more offensive. He quickened his pace.

Considering that the only thing in Gotham with a longer stride than Crane was the giraffe at the zoo, he made excellent progress toward escape. At least until Harley, who had been jogging beside him, grabbed his arm and turned into a lead weight.

"What now?!" Crane demanded.

Harley looked up at him with quivering lips and watery eyes. "You can't leave 'cause if you try, Jervis is gonna put a hat on you and _make_ you have a merry Christmas."

Crane's eyes narrowed. "I'd like to see the little psychopath try."

Harley shook her head violently. "He's got most of the guards and...and some bad people. Anybody that wouldn't do what we wanted or that said mean things about Santa or about Jervis' hats or Alice or-"

"You've painted the picture well enough, thank you! If I suffer through whatever party you've got planned, will you convince him to allow me to leave unmolested?" Crane asked.

"If you're really in the holiday spirit, I'm sure Jervis'll let you go no problem."

"Quinn, for all our sake, I hope you're right. Let's get this over with. Take me to the party."

* * *

The inmate cafeteria, normally the most boring shade of industrial gray, had been turned into a winter wonderland. A winter wonderland as defined by deranged maniacs and the unfortunate souls under their control. That little detail couldn't quite be forgotten upon closer inspection.

Christmas trees of every color and description had been drawn upon the walls with paint, marker, crayon and pastel stolen from art therapy rooms. Someone had built a snowman out of instant mashed potatoes. Another creative soul had attempted to turn the lighting red and green by smearing lettuce and tomatoes on any exposed light bulbs. That had resulted in several broken bulbs and Crane thanking the gods Poison Ivy wasn't there to see her precious vegetables abused.

All around the expansive room, people hustled back and forth. Some wore the jingling signs of enslavement and Crane was careful to avoid them. Others, mostly humdrum inmates who didn't dress like every crime spree was Halloween, willingly helped decorate, set tables, join the chorus of off-key carolers, or otherwise cater Harley and Jervis' bizarre party.

Mingling among the generic faces like royalty among peasants were a few people Crane, and every human on Earth, did recognize. Due to his massive frame and head-to-toe Santa suit, Humpty Dumpty was the most cutting figure in the room. Despite the hat, Crane doubted he was under any sort of mind control. Humpty Dumpty was a naturally cheery fellow who enjoyed playing Santa, from what Crane understood, and even did it freelance. Though for whom, exactly, Crane wasn't quite clear.

Standing beside Humpty was his oldest friend from the asylum: Warren White, the Great White Shark. He wasn't wearing a hat or Santa suit, and looked bored out of his skull by the whole proceedings. Crane sighed. At least he was in good company there.

The tables had assorted plates and silverware—and it was truly _assorted_ , with some settings having three plastic spoons while others had doubles of everything—but no food yet. That made the few people sitting down conspicuous. Crane scanned them as he and Harley passed, noted one had a prosthetic leg and good reason to sit, some were talking either to each other or to the air, and one was going to stab them all very soon and ruin Christmas more spectacularly than the Grinch ever could.

"Who thought this was a good idea?" Crane demanded, pointing.

Harley, who'd been merrily chatting away next to Crane, looked around. "What? The mongooses instead of reindeer? I know it's not 'traditional' "—here she made air quotes—"but reindeer can't really fly. And Bob's got a great imagination."

Crane gaped at Harley. What in the seven hells was she talking about? The abominable mural on the wall? Yes, it was an affront to art and holidays, but it was in the opposite direction to which he was pointing!

"Not the painting! Look!" Crane grabbed the back of Harley's head and turned it in the right direction.

She gulped. "I did say Jervis had some bad people."

"And does Tetch not realize how dangerous those people are? What is the plan here?" Crane asked.

"Uh, he's wearing the elf hat, so maybe everything's okay?" Harley suggested.

Crane's first impulse was to ask how many people, almost certainly guards under Tetch's control, had died getting that elf hat on there. But there was no use guilting Harley, because it would only result in her melting into a weeping puddle and becoming useless.

"No part of this is okay. I have no idea when, but he's going to overpower that hat, and then he's going to use the knife some negative-IQ put in front of him to gut us like- like he's gutted however many other people he's killed!"

The source of their problems twitched violently and Harley flailed like an inflatable tube-man at a car dealership. "I'm gonna go find Jervis! Maybe two hats'll help!"

Before Crane could stop her, Harley had ducked around a squad of singing brain-slaves and disappeared into the depths of the cafeteria. Crane was left alone with Victor Zsasz and the kitchen knife a foot from his fingers. That was an unacceptable position for anyone who wanted to keep breathing. While Harley was off probably hiding under a table, praying to Frosty the Snowman for divine intervention, Crane was left to deal with this act of unspeakable stupidity.

As far as solutions went, Crane didn't see that many. He could pass the buck like Harley and hope someone with either bigger _cojones_ or a smaller survival instinct came along and solved his problem. That probably wouldn't work, because it did seem like Zsasz was getting mighty close to regaining control over his hands. The rest of his bodily functions probably wouldn't be far behind. Once he was up, he'd remember who stood around staring at him and commenting on his elf hat.

The solution that made sense was to grab the knife and take it far away. And then find whoever had left it there in the first place and throw them into Killer Croc's enclosure. Only that plan required getting very close to a man who even the Master of Fear...preferred not to meet in dark alleys.

Bugger it, the longer he stood around hemming and hawing, the closer he got to getting stabbed in the back for Christmas. Crane darted forward, grabbed the knife, and bolted directly into a short man wearing a tall hat.

The laws of physics knocked Crane back a few steps and threw Jervis ass over tea kettle. He landed on his prestigious hat, which he flattened considerably. Like a mock turtle on its back, it took Tetch much wiggling and writhing, and finally outside intervention from Harley, to right himself.

"All persons more than a mile high to leave the court!" Jervis announced once he was on his feet.

"We haven't got time for this! I've got to get rid of the knife before-"

Jervis cut in, "If everybody minded their own business, the world would go around a great deal faster than it does."

"What do you mean? Did you want me to ignore our impending violent deaths? Are you mad? Bollocks, no, I don't want to hear the 'we're all mad here' bit. Just tell me if you gave Zsasz the knife," Crane said.

"Yes." The most straight-forward answer anyone ever got from the Hatter!

"Why?" Crane handed the knife off to Harley, who almost dropped it, so he could grab the Hatter's lapels and shake him. "There is no _Twelve Days of Christmas_ verse about a body count!"

"And he, he himself...the Grinch...carved the roast-beast."

Crane was surprised enough to loosen his grip. As a human being who had been around a television between November and December at least once in his life, he recognized the quote. And it sure didn't belong to Lewis Carroll.

The shock wore off before Tetch could scurry away like the little mouse he was. Crane tightened his hold and said, "The Grinch's worst crime is grand larceny. He's redeemable. One hundred plus counts of murder do not make Christmas cartoon specials! Get him in a cell before we have a _red_ Christmas."

"But the roast-beast."

"I'll carve it."

Jervis' eyes shone like the North Star. "You should say what you mean."

If his eyes got any larger, they'd turn into those of an anime character. Crane grimaced at their pure, childlike earnestness. "I mean it. If you can get those guards to stop plastering snowflakes to the wall and save our lives, I'll carve up any roast-beast, green eggs and ham, or bloody cats in hats you like."

"Uh, Professor, I really don't think you're supposed to eat the Cat in the Hat," Harley said.

Jervis snapped his fingers and moments later a troop of guards dropped their decorations and came to his assistance. He pointed at Zsasz, who had shaken off enough control to grab a fork and menace people with it.

"Off with his-"

"No, we don't need to do that. Harley and several inmates with...sensitivities are present," Crane interrupted. "Just repeat after me. Put him in a cell and make damned sure it's locked."

Jervis nodded. "Off with-"

"Christ. Try again."

"Put his head in a cell and-"

"You're giving me a migraine. Or maybe it's the beginning of a tumor."

Harley patted Crane on the back. "Don't give up, Professor. We just need, hmm, a little Christmas miracle!"

That miracle was delivered not in the form a red glowing nose or a magic hat placed on a snowman's head, but by way of a man-child built like Godzilla's armchair. Humpty Dumpty lived to fix things, and fixing Christmas gave him more pleasure than anything else. While Zsasz was busy using his one fully autonomous arm to fork from the front, Humpty grabbed him from behind in a monster bear hug.

And thus the giant Santa who had killed his own sadistic grandmother saved Christmas.

The original Grinch was locked away for everyone's safety just in time. By the time Humpty Dumpty returned, the combination of kitchen staff and inmates Jervis had assigned to create the feast had finished their duty. Crane considered arguing against his obligation to carve the roast-beast, which turned out to be a ham from a guard's trunk, because Jervis was a massive screw-up. The sudden appearance of a jingle-bell adorned hat shut that down.

As he passed slices of ham down the table and tried to avoid the food that was already flying through the air, Crane found a small smile on his face. Despite all the sentimental garbage, attempted murder, and awful, awful quotes, the Scarecrow's heart still grew three sizes that day.

Two sizes.

Half a size.

One-twelfth a size.

* * *

The End!

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, everyone.

Author's Notes:

Yes, those are real songs made by real people.

The line about wars over coffee cups refers to controversy surrounding Starbucks holiday designs not being able to satisfy every single human being on this planet.

In the film _Mad Max: Fury Road_ , soldiers known as War Boys would paint their mouths with silver spray paint, usually before going kamikaze and yelling, "WITNESS ME!"

Many of Jervis' lines come from the works of Lewis Carroll.

On the very off chance anyone has never seen _How the Grinch Stole Christmas_ , after the Grinch learns the true meaning of Christmas and regrets stealing everyone's gifts and food, his heart grows three sizes.


End file.
